


Tailoring

by betawho



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Drabble, Fluff, Gen, Humor, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-25
Updated: 2013-10-25
Packaged: 2017-12-30 09:51:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1017169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betawho/pseuds/betawho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Doctor and River go clothes shopping...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tailoring

 

“What about this, Sweetie?”

The Doctor turned to see River holding up a coat. They were in an elegant futuristic men’s clothing salon. One thing both of them enjoyed was shopping for clothes.

He bounded over and plucked the coat out of her hands, it was a frock coat, simple, with long elegant lines. He started nodding, his hair flopping in his face.

It was jet black. He swirled it on. It swallowed him, draping down to his knees and past his fingertips. “It’s a bit big.” He took it off and held it up before him. “But it’s tweed, that’s the important thing.”

“I know, Sweetie,” River tugged on the cuff of his regular tweed jacket. “And your old one is getting a bit frayed.” He hadn’t even taken it off to try on the new coat.

“You know what would make this perfect?” He turned to her with bright eyes. “Purple!”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Purple?” she said with dread.

He nodded ecstatically, beaming at the coat he still held in front of him. “This would look fantastic in purple!”

He stalked over to the alterations counter and River stifled a groan. She watched as he explained his demands to the tailor. The man got a pained look on his face. But the customer was the customer. He held up a tasteful dove gray waistcoat that would go beautifully with the black frock coat.

The Doctor nodded in agreement and made his own demands. The tailor wrote them down, the pinched but otherwise bland look on his face indicating his long experience with customers' varied sartorial tastes. Or lack thereof. He waved to an illuminated circle on the floor beside the counter and the Doctor stepped into it cheerfully, holding his arms out as it scanned him for measurements.

He bounded over happily to River. “Now, _shoes!_ ” His finger stabbed the air with glee and she smiled back. That was a subject she could get into.

The Doctor wasn’t into high heels, but he was an even more demanding shoe shopper than she was. She grinned as she watched him tear down the aisles of the cavernous shoe emporium, three attendants following him, restoring order in his wake as he examined shoe after shoe, boot after boot, tossing unacceptable offerings over his shoulder like a whirlwind and moving on to the next.

If it wasn’t known that she was a fabulous tipper he would have been booted out on his boney, but lovely, bum.

She wandered away to the women’s section, soon surrounded by the exotic fruits of the future cobbler’s art. Straps and heels and stitching, boots and buckles, sparkles and leather and every color of the rainbow.

The Tardis wardrobe room was going to have to expand again.

She grinned and dived in.

She returned to the tailor’s front salon hours later swinging a new jeweled purse to match her new jewel studded heels, to find a pair of perfectly gaudy purple leather boots sitting on the viewing sofa, with her Sweetie’s old tweed jacket thrown beside them.

Trust him to find a pair of boots with fancy purple leather designs stitched on.

His throat cleared behind her. He sounded delirious with happiness and anticipation. She scrunched her eyes shut and turned to look at him, peeking leerily through her lashes.

Her eyes popped open. They got a little wider as he twirled in front of her, the tail of his new coat fanning out stylishly.

“Ooh, my. Sweetie!” She could feel her eyes opening a little wider than normal, feel the pulse beating in her throat.

The tailor certainly knew his business. Far better than the Doctor's last one. He'd taken what could have been garishly horrid and made it positively delicious. And it perfectly fit her husband's long slender form.

Long purple tweed frock coat, pale purple waistcoat, a second pair of the purple stitched leather boots on his long feet, and a pale lavender shirt temptingly open at the neck.

She suddenly had an overwhelming urge for grapes.

“No purple bow tie?” she asked, forcing her voice to be husky, not squeak.

He bounced on his toes, delighted. “I’ve got one in the Tardis.”

She sashayed forward on her new heels and hooked a finger in the neck of his shirt, completely ignoring the elegant and sedate atmosphere of the salon. She pulled him close.

“You won’t need it.”

—

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